


Desperation

by kayafromthestraits



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Please read the author's notes for warnings!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22187011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayafromthestraits/pseuds/kayafromthestraits
Summary: To say that Harlan Thrombey’s death flipped Marta’s life upside down was an understatement.Within less than a month, her home changed from a flat in a humble neighborhood to an enormous estate; she had more money –way more money– sitting in her bank account than her mother had made in her entire lifetime; and she was just now getting over the consequences of being tangled up in one too many mysteries.But as it turns out, it isn’t just Harlan Thrombey’s home or the circumstances surrounding his death that seems to have popped out of a mystery novel. One Thrombey favor, one secret room, and one mysterious conversation later, Marta finds herself at risk of being entangled in a web of crimes once again. Except this time, she could turn a blind eye. Close her ears off. Pretend she doesn’t know what she knows. Keep living her life. She’s a nurse, after all – not the police. But the woman’s words keep lingering in Marta’s head.“Don’t give up, Marta. The past can change.”What did the woman mean?Why was it Marta that she had contacted, of all people?And what the hell do the Thrombey’s have to do with all of this?
Relationships: Benoit Blanc & Marta Cabrera, Marta Cabrera & Original Female Character(s), Marta Cabrera & Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Throughout the story, there will be mentions of various crimes, such as kidnaps, murders, suicide, etc. There won't be any graphic details, but I'll still put chapter specific warnings in the author's notes, so please read them beforehand. 
> 
> Also, please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction, and that although there are some aspects of it that were inspired by real-life events, the places and incidents that appear in this story are (for the most part) fictional.
> 
> In chapter one, there are mentions of a kidnapping of a child, murder, and suicide. Again, they are not described in great detail, but please do not read at your own discretion.

Christmas was a respectable several weeks away, but one would think it was tomorrow from the fairy lights draped over the trees and the carols blaring from the shops. The streets bustled with parents hurrying home to their children after a long day at work, friends greeting each other warmly before hustling off to celebrate the weekend a couple of hours early, and strangers apologizing as their shoulders collided. 

Among those that were out and about on this busy Friday evening was Marta Cabrera. Having perfected the art of weaving through such large, preoccupied crowds long ago, Marta made her way down the street with ease, half her face concealed by her scarf, and slipped into her parked car. Her eyes scanned the buildings ahead of her. She had never been one to frequent the police station, but following Harlan’s death, it seemed that she was getting at least one phone call a week from one detective or another. Sometimes, it was simply to check up on her. Other times… well. 

“Do you think you could come down to the police station?” Lieutenant Elliott had sighed less than an hour earlier.

Marta avoided her mother’s concerned eyes as she put down her knife and wandered out of the restaurant. The winds were harsh. She regretted leaving her coat hanging on her chair. “What’s going on?”

There was some commotion on the other end of the call. Marta thought she heard a voice that sounded like Meg, but she wasn’t sure.

“Lieutenant Elliott? Is everything ok?”

Another sigh traveled down the line. “Yes. Sorry, Ms. Cabrera—”

“Did you call _Marta_?” 

That was definitely Meg’s voice. Marta hugged herself with her arms as she listened to the muffled argument that broke out at Lieutenant Elliott’s confirmation. Out of the entire Thrombey family, Meg was possibly the only person Marta still cared about. She wasn’t sure how she felt about her friend outing her mother’s immigration status, but Meg had been the only person who hadn’t turned into a vicious beast the instant Harlan’s will was read. 

“Go, Marta,” she’d said while the rest of her family were attacking Marta like a pack of starved wolves. “ _Go_.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Meg’s voice snapped Marta out of her thoughts. “Seriously, Walt? You’re a fucking—you know what? Give me the phone. _Give me the phone_.”

It required quite a bit of wrestling on Marta’s part to get a proper explanation once the phone was handed over to Meg, who kept trying to hang up after telling Marta not to worry about it. Apparently, Walt was being held at the police station for driving under the influence and needed someone to bail him out. None of his family members were willing to do it, Meg included, hence his insistence that Marta be called. But it was fine, Meg said over and over again. She was there now. She would take care of it.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Marta had said in response, ignoring Meg’s protests. “You’re still in college, Meg. Just wait there, ok? I’ll be there in half-an-hour.” 

Marta’s knee bounced up and down as she switched the engine off and pulled out her phone to inform Lieutenant Elliott of her arrival. There were several missed calls from Meg. Text messages, too, telling Marta not to come. Marta got out of her car and made her way towards the police station anyways.

The Boston Police Headquarters was quite the sight at night, its unique architecture accentuated by the fluorescent lights that glowed against the darkness the hour concealed it in. It was a pity, really, that she was visiting the place under rather unfortunate circumstances. But then, were there cases in which one visited a police station under happy circumstances?

“Excuse me, ma’am,” an officer smiled upon spotting Marta wandering towards the entrance of the building. “Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, no.” Marta tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She hadn’t done anything wrong, yet the mere prospect of coming face-to-face with a police officer made her heart pound. Funny, she thought. Considering how many times she’d had to face one over the past couple of weeks, one would think she’d be used to it by now. “No. I’m just here to meet Lieutenant Elliott. But thank you.” 

“No problem, ma’am.” The officer then turned back to the civilian she’d been speaking to earlier. 

Marta didn’t mean to pry, but she couldn’t help but let her eyes wander towards the lady that was speaking to the police officer. She looked absolutely exhausted, her pony-tail drooping low, barely holding her hair together. There was a weariness in her eyes that made Marta’s heart clench – one that made Marta think that the woman had shed more tears in one day than she ought to have to throughout her entire life. In her hands was a placard that, too, was worn and torn. Marta’s breath hitched in her throat the instant she spotted the photo that was pasted on it. 

She was in Marta’s fourth grade class, Angela Gonzalez. Marta still remembered the way Angela’s eyes twinkled when Marta shuffled up to the front of the classroom to introduce herself. She remembered the confidence with which Angela picked her, the most unathletic girl in the class, to be part of her dodgeball team. She remembered the sound of Angela’s voice, calmly explaining to Marta’s mother in Spanish that Marta was sick and needed to be picked up from school. 

She also remembered the day Angela Gonzalez was kidnapped. Kidnapped and murdered. 

_Please help me find the man who killed my daughter_ , the placard said. 

But it was a woman, not a man, that had taken Angela that day.

“Ms. Cabrera?”

Marta took several deep breaths, none of which seemed to satisfy her body’s need for oxygen. By the time she’d calmed down enough to look up, Lieutenant Elliott was jogging his last couple of steps towards her. 

The ride up to Lieutenant Elliott’s office was done in complete silence, though Marta’s mind was everything but. When the elevator doors pinged open, he guided her towards the first hallway to the right. It looked oddly familiar, the light blue paint on her left and the glass panels on her right. She glanced over her shoulders down the path she’d just walked down as voices – memories – that hadn’t haunted her in a long time echoed in her throbbing head.

_“What are you doing here, sweetheart? Do you need help?”_

_“The kidnapper’s sent another letter! Let’s go, let’s go! Olivia! What are you doing? We have to go!”_

_“I’ll be there in a minute! Honey, is everything alright?”_

“Would you like something to drink, Ms. Cabrera?”

Lieutenant Elliott pushed the door open. Marta blinked and scanned the office. There was no drunk Walt, no Meg, no… no one. The office was empty. 

“I told her to wait, but she thought it would be best she didn’t,” Lieutenant Elliott explained. “She bailed her uncle out and drove him home. Probably knew you wouldn’t let her if she waited till you got here.” He handed her a folded post-it note. “She told me to give this to you. You sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

“Some tea would be nice,” Marta said, and he nodded before busying himself with the coffee pot, no doubt giving her some privacy. Marta unfolded the note and was greeted by Meg’s simultaneously neat and messy print.

_Marta, I… fuck, I don’t even know what to say. I’m sorry you had to drive all the way here for nothing. I’m sorry they called you in the first place. Thank you for offering to help us after all the shit we put you through. We really don’t deserve you. We never did.  
\- Meg_

Lieutenant Elliott placed a paper cup on the table in front of her. He took a sip out of his own. “I have to admit, Ms. Cabrera,” he said, “when you said you wanted to help the Thrombey’s out a bit, I didn’t think you’d follow through.”

There was a line scribbled out beneath Meg’s name. In her heart, Marta knew what words lay underneath the ink, but she couldn’t make any of it out no matter how hard she looked. Maybe that was for the best.  
“I can’t lie, Lieutenant Elliott. I thought you knew that.” Marta folded the note up and slipped it into her pocket. She smirked. “Or do you need another demonstration?”

He held his hands up. “Didn’t say you were lying. Wanting to help and actually helping are two different things.”

Wouldn’t she know.

“The Angela Gonzalez case,” Marta started cautiously, gauging Lieutenant Elliott’s reaction, “they haven’t caught the suspect yet?” 

Lieutenant Elliott’s eyebrow quirked up in surprise. “You know about the Angela Gonzalez case? You must’ve been… eight? Nine?”

“Ten.” Marta gulped. Her heart rate was starting to pick up. It was a struggle to keep her legs still. “It was a big case.” 

“Yes, it did cause massive outrage in the Hispanic community. Rightfully so. We made a fatal miscalculation.”

“Miscalculation?”

His fingers tapped on his paper cup. He then crumbled it up and tossed it into the bin. It missed, bouncing off of the rim and onto the floor. Lieutenant Elliott sighed, and Marta wondered if she’d struck a raw nerve.

“It was my first big case,” he said, bending down to pick up the trash. “Until then, I was mostly giving out parking tickets in the East. I returned to the station one evening and found it in complete chaos. They said a child had been abducted. They didn’t know what time she was taken, but they were operating under the assumption that the child was kidnapped on the way home from school.” He dropped the cup into the bin. “That meant we were a good six, seven hours behind. They needed all stations in Boston on the case.”

“What took so long?” 

“I don’t know. Her grandmother called the police a little less than an hour after she was dismissed from school, but it wasn’t until nine in the evening that it was treated as an abduction case. Supposedly, the station that received the call thought Angela’s father took her. He’d recently separated from Angela’s mother and were fighting over who was going to raise the kid.”

“But he hadn’t.” 

Lieutenant Elliott shook his head. “She was found dead a few days later.” 

By the FBI, Marta remembered. In the closet of a hotel room. Her mother had wordlessly handed her a single white lily the morning following the official police announcement. It was a sickening sight, the heap of flowers resting beside Angela’s sticker-covered desk plate. No child walked home alone for years. 

“Hey, Elliott?” An officer poked her head into the office. She was the same officer Marta had run into earlier. “I’m going to call it a day. You should head on home, too. Might be a rough weekend.”

“Right.” Lieutenant Elliott rubbed his eyes with his palms. “Mrs. Gonzalez still outside?"

The officer nodded. “I’ll talk to her on my way out, but if she’s still there when you leave…”

“I’ll take care of it, Vic. Don’t worry.”

“Just… be gentle, alright? If the President signs the bill… we’d have maybe two weeks to solve it, and we can’t… we can’t solve it in two weeks, Elliott.”

“No,” Lieutenant Elliott agreed. “No, we can’t.”

“It’s that stupid statute of limitations bill,” Alice said when Marta asked about it later that night. Currently a political science major, Alice was much more up-to-date when it came to legal and political affairs than Marta was. “You know, the one the President mentioned during his campaign but everyone chose to ignore?”

Marta blinked. Honestly, the President had made so many promises to the American people during his presidential campaign that Marta had trouble remembering what he’d said and what he hadn’t said. She remembered him claiming he’d decrease the number of crimes in America – that he’d make sure the police did their jobs properly.

“The police right now… right now the police, they don’t do their jobs,” he’d said. “They’re busy trying to… their job is like farmers, right? They need to look at the oranges, these foreign, alien fruit, and they need to go, ok. These are proper oranges. Those are bad oranges. Those are fake oranges. But the police right now, they aren’t doing that.”

He continued going on and on about good oranges and bad oranges and had made absolutely no sense at all to Marta. But clearly, he’d won the hearts of some Americans because he was sitting in the White House right now. 

“I thought that had more to do with immigrants,” Marta said. 

“They want to put a 15-year limit on first degree murder.” Alice stomped into the kitchen, Marta hot on her heels. “ _15 years_. Even if the police catch the murderer, they won’t be able to punish him if the murder was committed before 2005.” Alice pulled a mug out of the cabinet and slammed it on the countertop so hard that Martha flinched. “For fuck’s sake. Other countries are getting rid of statute of limitations, and what does this country do? Goes in reverse.”

“But why?”

“Some bullshit about how it’s unfair to punish murderers so many years after the act.” Alice scoffed. “You know what kind of person would come up with that sort of reasoning? A murderer.”

*

The woman had red heels on. For some reason, that was the detail Marta remembered. Not the woman’s approximate height, or hair, or face, but her shoes. Her red heels. Bright red heels. Blood red heels.

They haunted Marta in her dreams for days following her visit to the police station. Every night, her nightmare brought her back to Alice’s first grade classroom, to the same exact window she was standing next to as she waited for Alice to finish picking up the crayons she’d accidentally knocked over on her way to the cubbies. 

It was raining on that particular day. Other kids had mothers waiting for them, but Marta and Alice were on their own. Luckily, Marta always brought an umbrella to school just in case. She happened to glance out the window for no particular reason and saw that Angela hadn’t left yet. Angela’s mother, like Marta’s, worked full time and was probably unable to leave work to pick her daughter up. No matter, Marta thought. Her umbrella was big enough for the three of them. They could walk home together.

Marta bent down to pick up the crayons that had rolled her way. “Hurry up, Alice.”

“I _am_ hurrying.”

After tossing in the last couple of crayons, Marta placed the basket against the wall, next to the other art supplies. She peered out the window again to see if Angela was still there.

She wasn’t.

And this was where her dream would always switch from a recount of a haunting memory to a full out nightmare. Instead of watching Angela walk away with the stranger, Marta was jolted into an empty room – a pitch black room – all alone. The clicks and clacks of the woman’s heels pounding against the floor echoed throughout the room. Marta wanted to run. To scream. To wake up from her dream. But she couldn’t. And when she did move, when she did turn her head, she was greeted by a pair of pale feet encased in red heels. The lady crouched down, her face hidden by her black umbrella. And then… then she let the umbrella drop from her hand, revealing her face.

Her blank face.

Marta gasped awake. Her body was still paralyzed with fear. As she evened out her breathing, she wiggled her legs, arms, and finally peeled her eyes open. There was still a part of her that was afraid she’d see the lady if she rolled over. Her fingers trembling, she felt around for her phone. It was half past ten in the evening. She’d meant to wait till Alice got home to go to bed. She must have nodded off.  
Feeling sick to her stomach, Marta eased herself up, grateful that her lamp was still on. Cold sweat was beading on her forehead. She wiped it away with her sleeve as she let her legs hang off the edge of her bed for a bit before sliding off of it. There was no way she was going back to sleep anytime soon. She might as well get up and busy herself.

Despite having lived at the Thrombey Estate for over a month, the place had yet to feel like home. It was too big for just her, Alice, and Mama to live in. They’d considered letting the dogs in to maybe make the place feel more alive, but in the end, there were too many props that could get knocked over and ruined for them to do that. For how much attachment they claimed to have to the house and the items in it, the Thrombey’s had asked for relatively little when Marta reached out and asked if they wanted to keep any of Harlan’s things.

“It’s probably because they only cared about the money,” Meg had muttered when they’d met at a coffee shop near her school yesterday. Her hands fidgeted with the cheque Marta had written for her. 

“What about you?” Marta asked. “Is there anything you want?”

Meg looked stunned. It made Marta’s heart shatter a bit. “Me?” 

Marta nodded, and Meg’s gaze dropped to her lap. Marta could practically see the gears turning in the girl’s mind and, not for the first time in recent days, wondered if she ever was the friend Marta thought she had. 

“God, I feel awful saying this,” Meg said only after both their drinks had gone completely cold. “Have you ever been in Ransom’s room?”

Truth be told, Marta didn’t even know Ransom had a room in the Thrombey Estate. He was rarely around, and when he did show up for family gatherings, he left early, usually after a fight that seemed to amuse him more than anything. But according to Meg, he did.

“It’s at the very end of the corridor on the third floor.” 

Marta frowned. She knew the estate pretty well after spending so much time in it with Harlan over the past five years. The second floor had several bedrooms, including the one Meg and Joni stayed in whenever they came to visit. But the third floor? Harlan used to say that the third floor was entirely his. 

Meg grinned, clearly having caught on to Marta’s confusion. It was nice, seeing a bit of her old personality bleed through. “It’s there,” she said. “Tap on the walls a bit. I don’t even think Fran knew about it, but you’ll be able to find it.”

“What do you want from his room?”

“It’s just something that I… I don’t even know if it’s there, actually, I just…”

“You know,” Marta hesitated before continuing, “you could always come by and get it yourself.”

Meg’s smile had faltered at that. “No,” she’d said. “No, it’s alright. I don’t think I could… just let me know when you find his room. Please.”

In the end, finding Ransom’s room was easy enough. Marta probably just looked a bit crazy doing it, walking down the hallway in the middle of the night, lightly knocking on the wall with her ears pressed against it. It was a lot like Harlan’s study, actually. On the outside, it looked like part of the wall, but when nudged, a staircase revealed itself. Marta flicked the lights on. 

_I found the room_ , Marta texted as she walked up the stairs. She then tucked her phone in her pocket. 

The room looked… unlike its occupant. There was a large, king sized bed covered in ivory comforter. Half of it was taken up by small pillows. A group of stuffed animals sat against them. An entire wall was a bookshelf, but there were more books than it could accommodate, resulting in stacks of books littering the floor of the room. Another wall displayed medals. Tons of them. And above those were two college pennants: M.I.T.’s and Harvard’s. Marta found a third one on the desk, though she couldn’t tell which college’s it was because it was folded up. 

Marta ran her finger across the surface of the desk. A layer of dust came off it, but no more than any other place that hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned for the past month or so. Fran must have known about Ransom’s room after all.

Marta pulled her phone out. There was a missed call from Meg. Marta pressed the dial button, leaned against the desk, and let her eyes wander around the room. She thought she’d feel uncomfortable being in Ransom’s room – the man had tried to stick a knife through her chest, after all – but instead, she found it rather intriguing. Perhaps it was because the room was just so very different from what she’d expected it to be like. She’d expected… well, she didn’t know what she’d expected. But she certainly didn’t expect Ransom to have teddy bears, nor did she expect him to have a plethora of textbooks on his shelves or… 

Marta’s eyes landed on a framed photo sitting on the corner of the desk. The woman in the photo was smiling. Genuinely smiling, with her eyes crinkled into crescent moons and her white teeth showing. She had wavy, chocolate brown hair that flowed down her shoulders, and although Marta was certain she didn’t know who the woman was, there was something about her that was familiar. Marta just couldn’t pin point what it was.

“Marta?”

Marta set the photo down in a hurry. “Meg. Hi. Sorry I missed—” She was cut off by Meg’s voice asking the caller to leave a voice mail. 

“Marta?” 

Marta froze. Slowly, she pulled the phone away from her ear. Sure enough, her phone had gone to voice mail, yet the voice that Marta couldn’t believe she’d mistaken as Meg’s in the first place was still calling her name.

“Marta? Are you there?” the speaker said, her British accent ringing clearly through the static noise.  
Her heart pounding in her chest, Marta’s fingers gripped the desk. Her eyes darted frantically from one corner of the room to the other, scanning for a radio or a phone or something – _anything_ – that could be making the noise. 

“I’m at Chatsworth Hospital, in the garden area behind East House, and…” the woman trailed off. Her voice sounded muffled, but it didn’t sound like it was coming from afar. 

Gulping, Marta inched her feet towards the staircase. It was too late for this. She was going to go back to bed, and once she had her cup of coffee in the morning, she would realize that this was all just one long, dreadful nightmare.

Static noise filled the room again. “I found the body of Anthony Haynes.” 

Marta’s thigh rammed into the knob of the drawer, but the pain was clouded by what she’d just heard.

_Anthony Haynes?_

Anthony Haynes was the man the police had claimed kidnapped and murdered Angela. For weeks, posters with his face on it were plastered on walls and pinned on bulletin boards. To Marta’s knowledge, he was still on FBI’s most wanted list. But if this woman was claiming that she found the _body_ of Anthony Haynes, then that must mean that he was no longer… 

“It looks like he committed suicide, but—” there was some more static noise-- “I think his thumb has been cut off.”

Marta yanked open the drawers of the desk. She only found stationary and some manila folders at first, but when she got to the bottommost drawer, she found a single walkie-talkie sitting atop various files and papers. She fumbled with the device. Harlan had taught her how to use it one morning. What was it that he had said?

“Hold down the large button on the side while you’re speaking.”

“This one?”

“Yes, that’s the one. It’s called the PTT. Let go of it when you’re done.”

Marta had tried it out, then laughed. “When am I ever going to have to use this?” 

“You never know,” he’d winked.

“Marta,” the woman said, jolting Marta out of her thoughts, “why did you tell me not to come here tonight? What’s going to happen?”

Marta took a deep breath before pressing the PTT. “Hello?”

“Marta? Oh, thank goodness. I was worried you weren’t there for a moment. I found the corpse of Anthony Haynes, but—”

“Anthony Haynes? The suspect of the Angela Gonzalez case? H—how did you… who are you?”

“My name is Olivia Drysdale,” the woman answered after a moment. Marta had a feeling Olivia was just as confused as Marta was. “I’m an—”

Olivia was cut off mid-sentence by a loud static noise. Deafening silence followed it, leaving Marta stunned on the wooden floor.

Marta pressed the PTT. “Hello?” 

When there was no response, she tried turning the volume dial, switching channels, and even pressing the power button. But there was no use. Nothing Marta did brought the radio back to life. The only evidence she had of the past ten minutes were her own memories.

Marta’s legs were jelly beneath her as she bounded down the stairs, one hand clutching the radio and the other skimming the wall. Once she reached the bottom, she gave the room one last glance before shoving the door shut. As she stood in the middle of the hallway, she thought back to the family photos Harlan had shown her over the years, the intricacies of Ransom’s room, and Olivia’s posh, unmistakably British accent. 

The back of her head hit the wall with a thud.

Who the hell was Olivia Drysdale?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you so much to all the lovely people who read, left kudos, and/or left comments on the previous chapter. I was not expecting any of it, but it was certainly a wonderful surprise, so thank you, once again. I hope you enjoy this next chapter, where we travel back in time, back to when Lieutenant Elliott was just a young officer and Detective Blanc wasn't a detective at all. 
> 
> **Chapter Warnings:** This chapter continues to talk about the kidnapping and murder of Angela Gonzalez. Again, nothing terribly graphic, but please read at your own discretion.

**_December 21, 2004 – 7 days after the kidnapping of Angela Gonzalez_ **

The hotelier’s face was turning a worrying shade of gray. His clammy hands trembled as they grappled for the piece of paper Agent Olivia Drysdale slid across the counter top. Written on it was a credit card number – the one Anthony Haynes appeared to have used to reserve a room at this very hotel last week.

“W—was the room reserved under this name?” the hotelier asked. 

“Not necessarily, Mr.—” Olivia glanced at his name tag— “Moore. Actually, it is more likely he used another name when making the reservation.”

“Right.” Mr. Moore gulped. A bead of sweat trickled down his face. He resumed clicking and typing away.

Olivia flashed a sympathetic smile his way before shifting her focus to Anthony Haynes’ transaction history that she’d received earlier. Just from scanning the first page, one could easily see how he’d maxed out his credit card. All of his purchases were made from high end brands. Chanel, Burberry, Balenciaga, Yves Saint Laurent, the list went on and on. Frowning, Olivia flipped through the packet. Over the past several months, Anthony Haynes had only purchased items that seemed to be for women: purses, pieces of jewelry, perfume and the like. How peculiar. 

Agent Donohue popped up beside her and knocked on the counter. Mr. Moore jumped a foot into the air. 

“In case you can’t tell,” Agent Donohue said, cocking his head towards the lobby where updates of Angela Gonzalez’s kidnapping were being broadcasted on the television, “we’re in a bit of a hurry here.”

The poor hotelier blanched. Olivia tapped her colleague on the arm with the packet of paper.  
“Have you seen this?” 

“No, I just magically knew that he made a reservation at this hotel,” Agent Donohue deadpanned. “Yes, I saw it, Drysdale.”

“You don’t think it’s odd?”

"What, that he showered his girlfriend with gifts?”

“ _Expensive_ gifts.”

“Yeah, well not all men give their girlfriends Snickers bars, Liv.” Agent Donohue leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. He smirked. “How’s Blanc?”

“Alive, I believe.”

“Man, you are _harsh_.” 

Mr. Moore peered up from his computer screen. His eyes bounced back and forth between the two agents. When he noticed he had caught Olivia’s attention, he cleared his throat. 

“R—room 1304,” he said. He placed the key on the countertop, but not before asking, “D—do I need to go with you?” His wide eyes were pleading, and he looked forever grateful when he was informed that no, he did not. Some color returned to his cheeks.

Olivia grabbed the key. “Let’s go.” As she turned towards the lifts, she noticed a rather frail looking officer standing nervously about a foot away from Agent Donohue. She raised an eyebrow in question.

“Officer Elliott from the Boston Police Department,” Donohue explained as the three of them walked towards the lifts. “Probably here to keep an eye on us more than to help us with the case. Isn’t that right, Officer Elliott?”

Officer Elliott, to his credit, remained relatively unfazed by Agent Donohue’s poking and prodding. As she stood next to him in the lift, however, Olivia got the sense that the young officer was more apprehensive about the situation that he was letting on. She guessed that his silence and apparent lack of reaction was his way of keeping a tight grip on his emotions in the same way Donohue got increasingly talkative the closer the lift got to their final destination.

Room 1304 was at the very end of the hallway, right next to the emergency exit. A ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hung from its doorknob. 

“It’s been there for more than a week,” a housekeeper said as she walked by, a pile of towels in her arms. “It’s never been cleaned.”

Olivia and Donohue shared a look. “Never?” he asked.

The housekeeper nodded. “Happens more often than you’d think,” she said before rounding the corner and disappearing from their sight. 

“Alright then.” Donohue reached for his gun. “Shall we?”

Her gun drawn, Olivia tapped the key on the lock. At the same time, Officer Elliott rang the doorbell. It was an unexpected act that startled her, but she regained composure instantly, her fingers holding the door handle firmly and her ears listening for any sign of movement inside the room. She cracked the door open, just a bit. Only darkness seeped out. Donohue gave her a nod, and she swung the door open all the way.

The room was completely dark. Olivia noticed that there was an electricity card slot on the wall. No card was in it. Cautiously, she reached over and slid hers in. One by one, the lights in the room flickered on. 

There were still zero signs of life.

Her gun still up and ready to shoot, Olivia entered the room with the two men following close behind her. Sure enough, no one was in there, but she didn’t let herself relax even one bit as the trio split up to scrutinize the room. 

“I’ll take the bathroom,” she offered. 

The bathroom lights were still off. Donohue hit the switches for her as he walked past. She had spoken like the prospect of inspecting the bathroom didn’t bother her one bit, but in complete honesty, she was petrified as the lights flickered on one at a time. It wasn’t until she didn’t spot any pools of blood or dead bodies that she let go of the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. 

“Nothing here except for some used towels,” she said. The rubbish bin looked untouched as well, but she bet there were strands of hair in the drain. She walked out of the bathroom to find Donohue shifting through the mess of textbooks and papers on the desk.

“Can you believe that guy _rang the doorbell_?”

Olivia ignored his remark. “Did you find anything?”

“Just some of his school work. Can’t believe this guy’s in med school.” He threw the papers back on the table. “Doctors kidnapping children, teachers molesting students… the fuck has this world come to?” 

“Excuse me, ma’am?” 

“Ma’am?” Donohue mouthed.

Olivia shot him a glare to which he smirked and continued his investigation. “Yes, Officer Elliott?”

Officer Elliott was crouched down in front of the sliding closet, which he’d opened. Olivia was impressed. Most people would’ve dismissed it as a built-in-mirror. As she strode towards him, she could see that the stoic exterior he’d done such a good job of keeping together up until this point had cracked, just a little bit. When she spotted the black bag that was stashed in the closet, shivers ran up her spine.

“I touched it, ma’am,” Officer Elliott stuttered, “and I felt… I think…”

Olivia motioned for Officer Elliott to take a step back. She pulled the bag closer to her. It was heavy. Around 30 kilograms, if she had to guess. As she let go of the bag, something inside it shifted and fell, grazing her hand and hitting the ground with a soft thud. The blood drained from Olivia’s face. Lord, she hoped it was the fingers of a mannequin that just skimmed the back of her hand, or even better, not fingers at all.

Officer Elliott was standing a significant distance behind her, leaning against the wall and seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from the bag he’d discovered. Olivia rose up on her knees and hoped it was enough to shield the young cop before zipping the bag open just a bit. A pair of wide eyes stared back at her through strands of matted hair. Olivia swallowed the bile rising in her throat as she closed the bag. 

A pair of boots padded up towards her and stopped right next to her knees. Her eyes followed the trail, starting with the black boots and ending at Donohue’s eyes, their brown orbs asking the one question neither men dared to ask. Unable to speak, Olivia nodded just once ever so slightly, and Donohue pulled out his radio while Officer Elliott stumbled into the bathroom.

* * * 

Olivia let Agent Donohue do the driving back to the office, not trusting herself to do anything other than staring out the window and watching the snowflakes flutter down onto the sidewalk. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional barking of a dog, and lined with houses all prepped for the Christmas season. As they drove by, Olivia could almost hear the delighted giggles of children as they dashed out of bed and towards the window to admire the snowfall and the exasperated sighs of their parents. All looked fine when she viewed the world from the warm safety of the car. It was hard to believe that somewhere in this neighborhood, there possibly lived an abused child, a grieving parent, a twisted criminal.

From the wing mirror, Olivia could see Officer Elliott’s shivering form. She turned up the heat a bit, though she knew it wouldn’t help much. 

“I’m truly sorry you had to see that, Officer Elliott,” she said as they neared the Boston Police Department. “Are you going to be alright?” 

Officer Elliott seemed torn between being honest and putting on a brave face. Eventually, he looked up from his lap. “I have to be, don’t I?”

Olivia turned in her seat. “No,” she said, “you don’t.”

“Poor guy’s going to have nightmares for days,” Donohue mumbled once Officer Elliott got out of the car. They watched the officer take a moment to compose himself before entering the building with strong strides. “Remember the first time I saw a dead body? Couldn’t eat for days.” Donohue glanced over at Olivia. “You held it together pretty well, though.”

“Did I?” 

It hadn’t felt like it at the time. Every time she closed her eyes, the corpse of the victim had floated into view. She kept the lights on when she went to bed and slept like a wooden plank with her face staring directly up at the ceiling. Even taking a shower had been an ordeal – she kept imagining she’d see the victim’s bloodied face in the foggy mirror. 

“Yeah,” Donohue said. “You always do.”

The FBI Boston Office came into view not long afterwards. Both agents hurried up to their office. From the minute they stepped out of the elevator, they could hear their boss’s voice thundering down the hall. 

“ _One man_ ,” Agent Kaminsky hissed just as Olivia and Donohue stepped inside the room. “We had _all_ agents and _all_ police officers in Boston looking for _one man_ and we couldn’t catch him?” He stabbed his finger at his agents aggressively. “You lot can’t catch _one man_?”

No one said a word. Agent Kaminsky exhaled, a hand running through his hair in frustration.

“A child is dead because we didn’t do our jobs properly,” he said. “The least we can do is find the bastard that did it and put him through hell. So I don’t care what you do – you can put a bullet in him for all I care. Do what you have to do and catch the son of a bitch. Do you understand?”

With that, the agents scampered away from the meeting table, some returning to their computers and others running out the door after grabbing some files off their desk. Donohue clapped his hand on Olivia’s shoulder once, then wandered back over to his desk. Olivia turned to do the same, but a thought occurred to her when she spotted the photocopied threat letters Anthony Haynes had sent Angela’s family. 

“Excuse me, sir,” Olivia said. Agent Kaminsky stopped in his tracks and looked positively annoyed. She carried on speaking anyways. “I noticed from Anthony Haynes’ transaction history that almost all of his purchases were made from high end, luxurious brands – many of which cater to women.”

Agent Kaminsky blinked. Then, he laughed. “So?”

“He’s in medical school, sir, _and_ he has a lot of student debt. I find it very difficult to believe he would spend an exorbitant amount of money on his girlfriend on his own accord. Also, the fact that Anthony Haynes’ seemingly only left thumbprints behind at the café is very suspicious. People don’t just leave thumbprints; they leave fingerprints.”

“What is it you want to say, Drysdale?”

“There is a chance we may be going after the wrong person. We should widen the investigation to include the women he knows.” They shouldn’t have narrowed the suspect down to just one person so quickly in the first place, but Olivia didn’t say that out loud. She had to pick and choose her battles, after all. 

“His roommate did mention that he’d complain about his girlfriend,” Donohue piped up. “Said she drove him nuts. Well, I mean those weren’t his exact words, but…” He shrugged. “Might be worth looking into her.”

Agent Kaminsky crossed the room, his lips pursed and the pen he held in one hand slapping against the palm of the other. There was an arrogant sway to his walk, and it took a lot of effort on Olivia’s part not to roll her eyes. He didn’t stop until he was close enough that he was towering over her – a difficult feat, considering there were only a couple of centimeters difference in height between them. 

“Ask any man here if they’ve ever had a girlfriend that didn’t drive them nuts, Drysdale,” he said. “Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays… more than half of a man’s paycheck goes into keeping his girl happy. But you wouldn’t know that, would you?” He scoffed. “Look, you want to go and question his girlfriend? Go ahead. But you’re on your own.” Shaking his head and huffing out mocking spurts of laughter, he strode out the room.

Donohue whistled. "Didn’t Kaminsky used to like you?”

Olivia plopped down into her seat. Stuck onto the bottom of her monitor was a post-it note she’d almost forgotten about. _21/12/2004 Chatsworth Hospital_ was written on it. Olivia glanced at the clock, then peeled the note off and stuck it in her pocket.

“He still does from time to time, when I come into work with full make-up on, have his coffee in my hand, and keep my mouth shut the entire day.”

Donohue snorted. “When’s the last time _that_ happened?”

“Before I was of legal drinking age, probably,” she said, pushing away from her desk. As she did so, her eyes flitted to a trio of Christmas themed chocolates that definitely hadn’t been there when she’d left the office several hours ago. She picked up the Santa Claus and twirled it around, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Then, she hid the other two behind her paperwork and started heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Donohue asked.

“Out” is what she would have said to dodge the question in a sarcastic, not entirely untrue manner. However, just as the word was about to leave the tip of her tongue, a third person entered the conversation and promptly dissolved all coherent thoughts that were in her mind.

“Are you heading home?” 

Olivia forced her eyes to blink and her vocal cords to move. “Agent Blanc.”

Blanc’s face clouded visibly in disappointment. It was going to get him in trouble one day, what an open book he was at times. “Agent Drysdale.” 

Her smile wavered. “What a day, huh?” 

He didn’t respond right away, opting to study her instead. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said out of habit. “I was just about to go and try to find out more about Anthony Haynes’ girlfriend, actually.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, that’s quite alright. I’ll be fine on my own, thank you.”

“Right.”

“Yes.”

Awkward silence followed the short interaction. Olivia’s fingers traced the chocolate that was still in her hand.

“Well, then I’d better—”

“What I said about…” Blanc turned an adorable shade of red. He cleared his throat. “About what I said, I…”

“You know what? Um…” Her breath stuttered as she exhaled. The note sat heavily in her pocket. “Can we talk about it when I get back?” 

The question left a bitter taste in her mouth that somehow increased in intensity when he nodded. She moved to slip past him, but before she did, she flashed him the brightest smile she could muster and said, “Thank you for this, by the way.” She wiggled the chocolate in the air. 

He blushed. It was cute. She glanced at the clock again. She could be running out of time. She really should get going. But the crumbled-up sticky note in her pocket weighed her down, pinning her to this place. To this moment. 

To this person.

Her heart clenching in her chest, Olivia leaned in till she could smell the lingering traces of his body wash. She closed her eyes, praying that she wasn’t making a mistake, before letting her lips brush his cheek. 

“Merry Christmas, Benny,” she whispered.

* * *

**  
_December 9, 2019_   
**

“Today, the President signed a bill that will impose a 15-year statute of limitations on certain capital crimes, including first-degree murder. Terrorism and espionage, however, will continue to have no statute of limitations. It has been announced that this change is retroactive, and therefore, applicable cases from before December 9, 2004 will no longer be—”

Lieutenant Elliott scoffed and snatched the remote control off the table. He slammed down on the power button before tossing it back on the table, sending it skidding across the table, stopped only by Trooper Wagner’s coffee mug. Trooper Wagner, however, took no notice, too busy inspecting the walkie-talkie Marta had brought. Without the television to watch, Marta busied herself with tugging on the loose yarn of her sweater.

“This thing looks pretty old,” Trooper Wagner commented. “Where’d you get it?”

Marta licked her lips. “I found it in one of the bedrooms. In Harlan’s house.”

He hummed. “It’s probably one of the more normal things he’s got there, right?” He grinned.  
Marta tried to smile back. She hoped it was somewhat convincing. “Is it the same one that the police use?” 

Trooper Wagner tossed the radio back and forth in his hands. “Uh… definitely not anymore, but maybe in the 90’s? Early 2000’s? Maybe…” He turned towards the desks. “Hey, Lieutenant Elliott! When’d you join the police, again?”

“2004.” Lieutenant Elliott’s face popped out from behind the divider. “Why?”

Trooper Wagner waved the radio in the air. “Did you use these back then?” 

Lieutenant Elliott squinted his eyes. “No.” He walked over to get a better look at it. His thumb brushed over the fading yellow star that was stuck on the top. A look of confusion washed over his face. His gaze shifted to Marta. He opened his mouth to say something but clamped it shut no long afterwards, shaking his head as though he was shaking his own thoughts out of his mind. “No, it’s definitely not the one they used back then.” His thumb stroked the sticker again. “You said this was Harlan Thrombey’s?”

“I found it in his house, yes.”

“He probably bought it back in the 90’s,” Trooper Wagner said. He took the radio from Lieutenant Elliott, who was still looking at Marta with a strange look on his face. 

“I might be wrong, but I think the FBI used something like that in the past.” 

Lieutenant Elliott’s eyes were glued to Marta as he spoke. She almost felt as though she was being interrogated once again. It would’ve sent her heartbeat through the roof, except most of her mind was preoccupied with processing the new information that had been thrust upon her. 

_The FBI?_ She’d thought maybe the person she’d spoken to – Olivia Drysdale – was a cop, but it had never crossed her mind that she might’ve been with the FBI. Marta entertained the thought in her mind for a moment. Was that why Olivia was not in any of the Thrombey’s family photos? And why she never came to any of the family gatherings? No, surely the FBI didn’t have a policy against their agents spending time with their families. Maybe she just didn’t get along with them. It wasn’t like Ransom spent a whole lot of time with them either. 

“The FBI?” Trooper Wagner squealed. “You know people from the FBI?” His eyes sparkled. “That’s _awesome_.”

Lieutenant Elliott didn’t seem to agree. “You should show it to Blanc.”

“Detective Blanc?” 

“Oh _yeah_!” Trooper Wagner snapped his fingers. “Detective Blanc was FBI, wasn’t he? Should’ve asked him about his time there. Do you think that’s where he learned to be so dramatic?”

Marta blinked. “Am I allowed to know that?”

“It’s not exactly a secret,” Lieutenant Elliott said. “Besides, the FBI’s not like the CIA.”

“Yeah, the CIA’s the one that’ll tell you they work in agriculture. By the way,” Trooper Wagner held the radio up, “did you say this thing works?” When Marta nodded, he frowned. “Huh. You sure? Because there aren’t any batteries in here.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” He turned it so Marta could see for herself. “See? Nothing.” He slid the radio onto the table as he leaned back, the slight flick of his wrist making it spin. The playful twinkle returned in his eyes. “Have you been reading Harlan Thrombey’s collection of short stories? Because there’s one – I forget what the name of it was – that had this phone that was broken but worked once in a while at random. But always at the same time of day. And the thing that was really cool about this phone was that…”

Trooper Wagner’s animated summary drowned out into meaningless background noise. The radio spun and spun and spun on the table. All the while, Marta stared at it, her mind spiraling faster and faster into a black hole of confusion and fear as it gave in to friction and slowed down, the empty pit where the battery should be gaping up at her.

* * *

Chatsworth Hospital was a pretty well-known psychiatric hospital. Located on the outskirts of Boston, its buildings were once surrounded by lush green trees and peaceful quiet, save for the chirps of local birds that greeted its staff and patients every morning.

Now, fifteen years after its last doctors and nurses packed up their things and left, the building seemed like the perfect place to shoot a horror movie, even in broad daylight.  
Marta gripped the handle tight as she peered out the window. In complete honesty, the hospital did not look as frightening as some of the other abandoned architectures she’d seen online. It had closed fairly recently, first of all, and had done so under… normal circumstances. 

“Lack of money,” Betsy had shrugged when Marta had asked. Betsy was a nurse at McLean Hospital. Had been for a long time. She herself never worked at Chatsworth, but some of her patients transferred from there to McLean when the former hospital closed. “Chatsworth was the place patients got sent to when their family wanted nothing to do with them anymore. There were no outpatients there. Once they were admitted, very few – if any – ever left. But of course, our view of mental illnesses has changed now. Really, it’s a wonder Chatsworth lasted that long – most mental asylums were closed by the 90’s.”

“Oh.”

Betsy had grinned wickedly at Marta’s surprise. “Why? Were you expecting something spookier?”

She had, in all honesty. In retrospect, however, Marta was extremely glad Betsy hadn’t made something up in order to mess with her. The graying exterior and overgrown weeds surrounding the building were more than enough to make the place look haunted. 

The entry ticket machine was still standing, as was the boom gate. Both were filthy, and Marta doubted they worked anyways. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, then started backing away from the hospital so that she could turn around and go back home. But instead of doing the sensible thing, Marta found herself stepping on the brakes. This was crazy. She was crazy. There was no way a radio without a battery could’ve worked, and there was no way… Marta shook her head. 

“You are insane,” she said out loud. She yanked the gear stick, parking her car, and stepped out of it. She stomped towards the hospital before she could change her mind. She was insane. She knew she was insane. But this insane, probably illegal trespassing she was about to do was necessary to prove to herself that she needed to start drinking more water, getting more sleep, and staying away from the Thrombey’s, so she pushed through with it and ducked underneath the boom gate, her phone clutched in one hand.

The garden wasn’t difficult to locate, thanks to the huge wooden map that was erected in front of the hospital, and wasn’t very far from the entrance either. She’d thought she’d have to pass through the East House in order to get to it, but as it turned out, she could walk around the building as well. As her feet scurried along the cobblestone path, she silently thanked the architect of the hospital. 

It wasn’t long before the soles of her shoes were stepping on grass instead of cobblestone. All ten of Marta’s sweaty fingers were crushing her phone. Looking around, there didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary, except that all of the garden’s occupants were growing erratically, flowing out of their designated spots and taking up whatever patch of land they could devour. The grass was bent over and squished under its own weight. Ivy was clambering up the fountain, suffocating the angel that looked over it all. It was very unsettling. 

A cat meowed. Marta jumped at the sound. After trotting across the grass, it leapt onto the fountain and cocked its head to the side, like it was perplexed by her presence. Marta didn’t break eye contact with the cat, though for what reason she didn’t know. Finally, the cat gave in and yawned. Then, to Marta’s surprise, it leapt into the fountain.  
There was no splash, and Marta didn’t know why she was concerned about a stray cat she’d just met, but she found herself feeling very much like Alice in _Alice in Wonderland_ as her feet almost unconsciously carried her towards the fountain the same way Alice chased after the White Rabbit. 

“Cat?” she called, feeling very silly. 

The cat meowed again. Marta peered into the fountain. Every cell in her body froze, because other than some crumbled leaves, a puddle of water, and an incredibly displeased cat, there was one other thing lying on the bottom of the fountain: a scattered skeleton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you have a great weekend!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and always very much appreciated. You can also find me on tumblr (@kayafromthestraits) if you'd like to come and have a chat!


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